Quieting Life

A Damn Long 16 Days

Deer season (var: rifle) opened 2 weeks ago, half an hour before sunrise on Saturday the 10th. Because the woods behind our place are ample and amply populated with deer, they make for a popular hunting spot. And while most hunters are well-trained and conscientious, the thought of wandering out there with a sprightly dog (even blazed in fluorescent orange) is not terribly appealing. So for the 16 days of deer season, me and the dog have to go elsewhere to stretch our legs. It defeats the purpose, somewhat, to have to drive to take a walk, but it's just a part of the cycle of things. And there's a really cool place to go walking when our woods aren't an option (mud season is another time to avoid them).

Seven or eight miles south of here, the river that runs past our door (the West River) is choked in spectacular fashion by the Ball Mountain Dam, built and maintained by the Army Corps of Engineers. There's a mile and a half of road in to it from Route 30, also the work of the ACoE. Maintained to high standards for constant access to the dam – routinely paved, always plowed in winter – with convenient parking, very limited traffic, and otherwise pristine exposure to the elements, it's a pretty swell spot to take a walk. And popular because of it (especially when the woods are off limits).

A Few Good Recipes for Thanksgiving

I won't be hosting Thanksgiving this year. We'll be joining friends at their house, with an assortment of other folk. Of course I'll cook a thing or four to contribute, whatever I'm assigned. But I thought I'd offer up these few recipes, for three elements that have become as essential to Thanksgiving dinner as the turkey itself when I do host: Creamed Onions, Cranberry Chutney, and Buttermilk Pie. These recipes were all posted previously on my cooking blog – A Cooking Life – which I have let go dormant in favor of this here blog.

The creamed onions are a departure from the bland white dreadfuls of my youth, made eminently edible with pan-roasted onions and a sauce spiked with wine, cheese, and chicken stock. The upgrade has apparently been well-received, as I keep finding my recipe (and the accompanying photo) swiped and claimed as someone else's all around the internet. You know what they say about plagiarism. 

The Gleaners

A friend spread the word that there were potatoes left for the taking at her fella's farm. Yesterday was a fine Indian Summer kind of day, perfect for digging taters. Most of what remained were rose fingerlings, with some red-skinned beauties scattered randomly in the rows. I didn't do anything so compulsive as weigh our haul, but I'd guess we got off with about 50 pounds. Joan, my partner in gleaning, took a small bag full for short term use, and the rest went right into the root cellar. This spared us trying to divvy them up, and she can stop by any time and retrieve them from their safe storage.

With gratitude to the farmer and the earth:

Making Good Dirt

In order to get and maintain organic certification, an organic farmer must adhere to a strict set of guidelines, which include a prohibition of synthetic chemical fertilizers and pesticides. Growing healthy plants organically requires building fertile soil through careful management – encouraging a healthy ecosystem of molds, fungus, bacteria, and insects that do the work of converting their surroundings into plant food. The best way to do this is to add natural (organic) material that breaks down into usable nutrients as it decomposes.

As a self-anointed organic home gardener, I have only myself to answer to – no one is testing my soil for chemical residue, no one would know if I were dosing my plants with Miracle-Gro (or spraying poison on the circus sideshow of bugs). I adhere to organic methodology as a matter of sustainability and self-sufficiency, and out of concern for my local environment and my own, and my loved ones', health.

After a Storm

Twice lucky. Aside from localized power outages, Vermont was spared Sandy's wrath. And thank goodness – there's no graceful way we might have taken a second hit. And when Irene came raging through a year ago, our home was left entirely unscathed, physically. Psychologically, not so much. It simply isn't possible to witness nature's full fury and not be deeply unsettled, to be reminded that (like that wicked witch) you have no power here.

But to then see your surroundings turned into a kaleidescope of unimaginable wreckage, to see entire towns swept away, friends' homes destroyed, bridges and miles of road washed away in a churning torrent – leaves behind a kind of warzone trauma. And it's hard to get a grip on because you haven't really lost anything. You start to feel like one of those idiot drama queens.

My solution was to tear myself away from the endless loop of recycled terror on my computer screen and to go out and help wherever I could. In the immediate aftermath, TJ and I went and helped neighbors tear out their sodden flooring and carpeting and move their remaining belongings to safety. I joined up with girlfriends to deliver a few truckloads of relief supplies to be ferried into a town completely cut off by the storm. On our way home, we stopped at a farm that had just watched their entire growing field sucked downstream; they still had their barn and their garlic harvest, which needed to be cleaned and packaged for an upcoming festival. So we spent a few hours prepping garlic, quietly chatting while the methodical trimming, batching, and bagging started to reset some internal rhythm. On another day, we helped at a little village market – a town hub – that had been badly flooded. We scrubbed and disinfected shelving and stacked it in the sun to dry. And then we raked and shoveled and righted their back yard, so the owners' kids would have a sane and ordered place to play.

I'm recounting all this, not because I think it makes me special or heroic, but because it's what made me start to feel 'normal' again. Connecting with neighbors and strangers alike, giving what I could where someone else needed it. It's basic humanity. And I'd implore anyone feeling stunned and overwhelmed in Sandy's wake: if you have the time and the ability, hand it out as freely as you can.

To those who've seen their homes or livelihoods damaged or destroyed, there is precious little I can say without feeling and sounding deeply insincere, having never suffered catastrophic loss myself. I can only offer this, gleaned from observation: it may be hard to ask for or accept assistance, but do. There's plenty out there. And it's the give and take that starts to put the world right again.